


Meddling

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the first time Gillian's ever really spoken to her with the rights of a mother publicly chastising her child, patience worn out and control snapping her tone as she reaches for her purse and wears the undeniable colors of 'Mom' in her demanding eyes. It's the first time she's unconsciously worn this expression of infinite love tainted with absolute and utter frustration." Emily can't help herself. Callian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meddling

She'd known, full stop, that her dad just wouldn't lie to her. That was their deal, right? Their thing, their schtick, their one true constant? Dad never lies, never reads, never pulls his punches. In return Emily never hides things, cheats, steals, lies or does anything else that he'd probably still do if it meant (in a wobbly shaped circle of a cycle) getting to the truth. And especially in regards to her.

But, even knowing that he wouldn't lie hadn't necessarily prepared her for the realization that the mere existence of this particular truth hurts him. That making him face it and voice it legitimately causes him a sort of pain that looks remarkably like the last half hour before a tragic heart attack.

He's breathing funny when she and Gill are in a room together.

He's unconsciously fisting his hand into the center of his shirt and staring vacantly away, as though waiting for truth to explode from his lungs or her lips and break between the three of them.

It's starting to make her feel like a jerk for forcing him to admit it.

It's starting to scare her, actually. Because she hasn't actually seen him look this frightened since the night he'd sat up with her in the hospital when she'd had her appendix out.

“I'm not gonna tell her, dad.” She tosses off one night as Gill's car crunches quietly down the drive, the smell of her perfume still tracing itself in curves around the kitchen. “You can relax.”

He swallows a lump of relief down his throat, working it into his lungs as he turns his head away from her and purses his lips up with a shrugging. “Didn't figure.”

“Yes, you did.” She disagrees petulantly, more childish than usual. “You thought I'd rat you out.”

 

* * *

 

 

She's a fattest rat in the whole of the District.

And that's saying a heck of a lot, considering it's a city full of politicians.

“Dad loves you.”

She sells him out, and easily. Way too easily considering he's her best friend in the wide world. And for merely the price of sitting in sidewalk sunshine and eating frozen yogurt with Gill and side-eyeing the couples going by while wondering if they're ever, ever, gonna get their shit together.

God, they'd be sickeningly cute too. Just like half the couples she watches meander by, the same ones Gill watches with a bittersweet half smile.

(They already are if she's honest with herself. In a subtly and safely and warm way, a way that promises Gill is there, Gill is their friend, Gill is just a phone call away should _anything_ happen.)

But together... they'd be happy. She knows this. She's made a mental list of the possibilities, the pros and the cons, the fits and fights and the variables which could lead to them not being happy and, still, all variables considered – the possible pile of blind freaking happiness is _so_ worth it.

Sure, they'd fight – they fight now – and, actually, they seem to get off on it. Sure, they'd bicker – they snipe back and forth already - and that seems to scream 'Unresolved Sexual Tension' too. Loudly. Like, galactic levels of loud. And, so, yeah... her dad can be an enormous pain in the rear - but Gill's obviously got her hemorrhoid pillow on hand because he's been jammed up her ass for nearly ten years.

But, God, they would both laugh more. He'd sleep better than he does now - because finding him trying to burn down the kitchen at four in the morning is starting to get pretty damn tiresome. Gillian would have someone who truly, seriously, loves every little thing about her – which is way more than she got with Alec (or, as she's taken to mentally calling him, 'Douche-Nugget') and what she legitimately deserves. Her dad would have a seemingly infinite resource of patient adoration besides her and, maybe it's selfish, but she's more than ready to share the load. He wouldn't be alone when she left... and maybe that's the most important point that she tries to completely ignore. Hell, _and_ they'd be all over each other and as sweet as the chocolate with caramel and brownie bits that Gill's got balanced on a little plastic spoon in sunshine.

A spoon that seems to melt in its hovering half up from the table as Gill blinks her a surprised glance but recovers far faster than expected. “I know he does, Em.”

“Gill.” Man, this is too easy. This is too ridiculously easy to do when it should be the most difficult thing in the world. “Dad's _in_ love with you.”

Dads shouldn't have daughters who just tell their secrets directly to their secrets in broad daylight. Most daughters don't have a freakin' Truth Prophet for a father, though. Most fathers and daughters lied to each other (about each other) more often than either of them did. Even with that justification... she can't seem to look Gillian in the eye, though. But, damn it, she's doing this. Because, obviously, they just won't.

“I know he is, Emily.” Gill's voice is soft and reserved and so confidently aware as it bends closer, warmed over the table in acceptance and slow reasoning. “You should leave it alone.”

“But - ”

“No,” a flush of over-riding heat swells Gill's tone a little louder. “You should have let him tell me.”

… what's she done? Aw, hell. Insert foot in mouth and choke on it, Em.

But... know what? All she's really done is exactly what everyone _expects_ her to do.

Act just like _him_ and jump on in.

Might as well make it one mega leap.

“I know.” A sway of guilt has her leaning her arm against the table, head leaning into her palm while she tries another spoonful of frozen pistachio with the other hand and pushes it against her cheek before swallowing. “He doesn't know what to do, Gill. He doesn't know how.”

“He's finding a way.” Foster murmurs as she dips that spoon into a half finished paper cup of frozen yogurt, just before she surprises them both by pushing it away, half uneaten and abandoned.

“Do you love him?” Aaaaaand, _jump_. “Gill?”

Holy shit. Oh, mother-loving-sweet-holy-hell...

“Oh, God.” She stares into the wide sky blue of Gillian's eyes and completely ignores her own yogurt in trade for watching this woman bleed emotions all over the table. “You do.”

“Stop.” It's a quiet request, one that matches the swayed and tentative way Gill's eyes dip closed. “Sweetheart, leave it alone. Just let it go.”

“Why are the two of you so stupid?”

A large sigh huffs past Gill's lips. “It's so much harder than you think it is, Em.”

Wrong. Incorrect. It's not hard at all. In fact, it's so insanely _easy_ now. Especially when they obviously feel the same way, when there's nothing to stop them, when all they have to do is say it. They're just being gutless and idiotic. They're just being stubborn and hard-headed. They're just being themselves and... _wasting_ time.

“It's killing him.” She demands, grinding her spoon into the cup without looking, unable to stop watching Gill's reactions, unable to look away from their honesty. “It's killing you. Both of you.”

“The person it seems to be bothering the most right now is you. Maybe what we should be discussing is why - ”

“Don't do that.” Emily demands in uncurbed frustration. “Don't... don't therapy me, Gill. I'm not one of your patients.”

There's a pang of unforeseen pain in the older woman's eyes as her head turns, her sunglasses pushed into her hair and her face so freely open in hurt. And if she didn't feel like a little shit before (for making him admit to it, for making her admit to it, for making the both of them twist it out) she feels like a puddle of mushy self reproach now.

Gill snorts a shrug up lean shoulders, her usually brightly patient eyes glossing near what looks like sadness and she curls her fingers up against her mouth and turns toward traffic. “What are you then?”

The question is tossed quietly into the street and a passing car catches it away and Emily knows that there isn't an answer that makes much sense to either of them right now.

There isn't a response that doesn't cause one of them even more hurt. Because, in reality, there are limited options in answer. One: she's a pouty and petulant teenager, pitching a fit to get what she wants. And that's likely too on the nose for her comfort zone right now... Two: she's become too close to this woman to just be a friend, a niece, a pal and ' _daughter_ ' is a word that has always made Gillian go stiff and obviously aching.

“I just want you guys to be happy.”

“Em,” there's resignation in Foster's tone as she shakes her head, a sad sort, “maybe this is the only way we can be happy, all right?”

She's wrong. But she also looks legitimately sure of the assertion and slayed by it at once. So Emily glares a swallowed pout down into her melted yogurt and stabs the spoon swirling through it, watches the muted green color shift and change as it breaks down more into liquid than solid.

“He loves you.”

“I know.” The words silt slowly off the older woman, just come hushed and quietly and with more knowledge than expected. And they're warm but harrowing at once.

And she can't help but push just, just a little more, because... _maybe_. “You love him.”

“Emily, stop it.” It's the first time Gillian's ever really spoken to her with the rights of a mother publicly chastising her child, patience worn out and control snapping her tone as she reaches for her purse and wears the undeniable colors of ' _Mom_ ' in her demanding eyes. It's the first time she's unconsciously worn this expression of infinite love tainted with absolute and utter frustration.

It's the first time she's raised her voice like she had every right to do so – and they've known each other for a hell of a long time, Emily's misbehaved before and broken the bounds of friendly propriety (also one of the vases in Gill's office when she was twelve).

She lifts her head into the tone, watches how deftly the older woman swallows it back down as she shakes her head and drops her eyes over the way she's tucked her bag into it lap. It's surprisingly pretty on her, that assured snap. It's chic and cool and it's maybe even more elegant on Gill than it is on her own mother. And Emily's never really considered how put-together and perfectly pretty Gillian can be when she's so utterly in control but out of it at once. In fact – she wonders if it's possible that she's seen this sort of mingling of confidence and insecurity at once and she doesn't remember a time wherein she has. It makes Gill look younger, seem more alive than she does when she's so focused on her work. It reminds her of the moments when the woman just laughs at something stupid her dad's said, something nobody else is going to laugh at because it's perfectly ridiculous – but Gill does. She almost always does, even if it's a laugh just made of breath. Which, inevitably, leads him to saying something even more idiotic just to repeat the process. To tease her.

“Emily...” Gill shakes her head back into vacantly watching the by-passers, the cars, the busy DC street.

“Sorry.” She shrugs out quietly and lifts the spoon into her mouth just to hide the victorious smirking that threatens to take over her entire face.

Because all she can think, all she can hear in her head over and again, is ' _Just wait until your father hears about this._ '.

And that's exactly what she'd been aiming for, really.

 

* * *

 

 

“You're later than I thought.”

She fidgets her body nearer the counter but she's all tightened up, defensive. “I was with Gill.”

He knows. All at once and suddenly he _knows_ what she's done.

And, damn it, hadn't he known she would?

“Dad?”

He knows because, basically, she's outright told him, hasn't she? It's written right across her palely beautiful round face. Remorse and guilt and shame all contorted over the cheeks and lips and eyes he's spent her entire life simply astounded over. Conniving and back-stabbing little creature's gone right round him and stabbed the knife somewhere between his shoulder blades. More like her mother than he'd suspected, actually. Because she's still managed to look beautiful to him, even while betraying him.

Brutus incarnate shouldn't look so sweet and especially not when he's just made an actual meal for the both of them and the kitchen smells of curry spices and the Scotch he's been sipping rather than slamming and who the hell ever invented the concept that children should be replications of their parents? Because... she's doin' her fair share to represent the status fucking quo. Muckin' about in other people's business, nosing around and finding secreted truths everywhere.

“It's okay.” Even he can hear how weakly quiet his voice sounds in the otherwise still and quiet kitchen.

“It's... not.” She argues back, her voice twisting up nearly as much as she seems to be. “I - ”

“Em.” Cal sighs off as he half raises his head, shrugs into meeting her eyes. “Public knowledge already, in'it? I mean, really?”

He knows that sometimes he's utterly obvious in how hard he finds it to keep himself out of Foster's business. That's intentional half the time, really. Put himself into that space and make it clear that any man who plans to press weight on her is gonna find more weight pressing back than previously expected, right? He also knows that the people surrounding the both of them are awfully damn credible when it comes to doing their jobs and sometimes, well... sometimes their jobs are to suss out secrets. Like whether one of their bosses is madly in love with the other.

He breathes out hard, shrugging as he holds his daughter's anxious glance. “So, how'd she handle the news?”

“I should have let you tell her.” Emily admits, her glance dropping to where her fingers are idly rubbing on the island counter top. “It wasn't my place.”

“That's what she said, eh?” He busies himself and stacks the utensils on plates and hands them over to her with a slow nodding of hushed agreement, avoiding how searchingly she's looking at his face for... anything. Forgiveness, love, taunting or affection. “She's right.”

“I know.” She agrees quietly, “I'm - ”

“It's okay.”

“It's not.” Emily tosses back as she carries the plates to the table, sets them out and turns back to him with a sullen shrug. Her arms go loosely around her middle as she steps back toward him, looking younger in how uncomfortable she is. “Didn't work anyhow, I guess. Figured she woulda told you by now.”

Cal shrugs as he nabs serving spoons and stuffs them in their proper bowls. “Well, I been here and you two been there so - ”

“She loves you.” It's distinctly true in the way she tells him and she's sure of it and he doesn't need to be Gillian or have her talent for tweaking on voices just to hear his daughter's honesty in their otherwise stifled up kitchen. “And I don't mean 'just friends' sorta love.”

He snorts as he hands her the food, carries some himself along with her to the table and she's staring at him wide-eyed the entire time, pleading silently for him to just... forgive her? Make it okay? He wasn't sure how to do that. He wasn't entirely sure that he was actually all that angry with her, not really. Well – he was, but... not. Not when all she'd done was turn a light on something he'd been keeping cornered. But he'd plenty of reasons for keeping it in the dark, hadn't he?

“And how'd you deduce that, Watson?” he casts back as he heads for the island, feeling how tense his shoulders have become.

“She couldn't finish her frozen yogurt.” Emily murmurs up near his shoulder, surprising closely nipping on his heels as she explains. “Chocolate with caramel and brownie bits.”

“'Couldn't finish some brownie bits' isn't equal to emotional evidence, Em.” His lungs feel tight and he avoids focusing too much on the feeling in exchange for handing her a loaf of bread, waving toward the knife block before turning back to what he was doing. “Make yourself useful, Traitor.”

“Dad - ”

“Well, y'did betray my trust. Broke my heart.” Cal lifts his tone higher than her guilty twinge, trying to meld some teasing affection into the words even if he does feel more than mostly exhausted with the conversation. “I'm bleedin' out on the kitchen floor and you're babbling about brownie bits.”

“It _is_ evidence.” The thunk of the knife cutting through and slamming into the cutting board draws his attention back quickly and he watches her start the next slice with near as much force. “When it comes to Gill, anyhow.”

Shoulda kept the actual knife back outta her hands, on second thought. She's done more than enough with the metaphorical one.

“I've plenty of evidence, love. I don't _need_ evidence.” Cal lets the admonition off softly, a hand stretching over hers as he steps into her side and nudges her away, prying the blade's handle from her carefully.

She leans long into the counter beside him, facing him down as he continues where she'd raggedly left off. Poor loaf looks mangled and not half as pretty as it had in the bakery, back when his daughter had been a sweet angelic thing and deserving of a nice home-made dinner. “Then why - ”

“Look, she's my best friend. She's earned that title, time and again. Hasn't she?” He carefully takes off another couple slices before setting the knife aside and wrapping the leftover hunk into its plastic, spinning it closed as he avoids her wide eyes. “Won't jeopardize that on a whim.”

“Well, then hasn't she earned the truth?”

She's plating the bread and he watches her hands as she does it, follows their movements as he tries breathing more patience into his body. “She _knows_ the truth, Emily.”

“Yeah, she does. And - ”

“She tell ya t'leave it alone?” He asks sharply as he finally turns his head into her arguing.

“Yes.” A pout that once would have melted him to liquid mercury brings her lips together.

“Then do so,” he says it with hushed sincerity, holding her eyes to intentionally drive the point home before he grabs at the butter dish and leaves her standing by the counter with a plate of bread.

“You're both idiots.”

“Happily so.” He responds blithely as he sits, ignores his plate and motions her over with a dip of his head. “Eat your dinner.”

“Not sure I'm hungry,” she quietly admits as she leans into the chair to his right, her eyes falling over the food with a sad regret in them.

Cal snorts as he knuckles against her arm and waves at the food in an effort to get her to at least try to eat. “Foster's ruined your dinner with frozen yogurt and romanticism.”

“You made enough for an army.”

Well, because he'd thought about sharing. He'd maybe hoped she wouldn't be coming home alone.

“Chocolate and caramel and brownie bits?” He makes a queasy face even as he stares down at his own plate, letting his shoulders slack him farther back in the chair. “You'll be up all night, bouncin' off the walls.”

“I had pistachio.” Emily waves off as she tucks both her legs up under her in the chair. “And she metabolizes sugar like it's crank to a junkie.”

“Oi.” It's really the first time his patience has actually been rough chipped and it's because he can't seem to help being defensive when it comes to Gillian and any reference of drug use in combination. “Back off it.”

She's legitimately horrified by the realization of her words, by their replay in her head after the fact, “I didn't mean... I'm sorry.”

She's apologizing for a whole host of things and he knows it. Starting with junkie references and ending with the fact that she's gone ten steps too far and his strangely quiet gentleness on the subject is terrifying her more than abating the situation. He takes a little slippery pleasure in the fact that his rocked back stillness is causing more than concern.

Good, she deserves a bit of angsting for what she's done.

If he wasn't so shaken and rattled by it still, he'd be raging a hell of a lot more.

Can't seem to pin where to start, though. Not when she's loosed the truth out to haunt all over his life.

Work in the morning was going to be a shit-storm, even if nothing happened.

“Food's gettin' cold.” Cal murmurs, lifting his jaw numbly as he aims over the full table.

Emily's fingers fidget against the edge of her plate and still she avoids lifting her fork. “I'm really not that hungry now.”

Neither is he, actually.

 

* * *

 

 

His thumb is rubbing the edge of his cell phone like just another traitor.

In fact, it goes a step further and finds the most recent texts between the two of them and before he can stop it he's already typed out something so innocuous that only Foster would know what it really meant.

_“Made too much chicken curry. Binning it. World's children will starve tonight.”_ He stares in annoyance at the words he's already sent, knowing they'll twist mutinous into ' _Love you_ ' by the time they reach the screen of her cell.

She answers fast, much quicker than expected, and he can see the nimble shift of her fingers in his head. _“Don't you dare. Save me some for tomorrow.”_

Right, so... in their language... ' _Love you too_ '.

_“Too spicy for Fosters.”_ He smirks as he sends it off, lifts his head to be sure Emily hasn't somehow silently snuck downstairs to watch him repair the day's events by way of smartassery and text messages.

A quick blink back and her answer has a laugh lifting from the base of his lungs.

_“This Foster can handle heat.”_

“Aye, aye,” he grins it out on a whisper and drops the phone to the island, refusing the itch of traitorous fingers to respond with twice as much innuendo, “bet she can.”

He leaves the phone still a few moments, tipping his head back as he listens to the ebbing of music from Emily's room and then exhales hard, shaking his head at what she's done over the course of the day before glancing back down. The blink of light on his phone has him frowning confusion over it and he opens the next text with one finger, stalled lungs and worry sharding in his throat.

_“Door's open.”_

Hello, hello... surprise, surprise.

She's off and reading his mind again without permission. Good girl.

He pauses another moment before snatching the phone up and answering with a cocky smirk raked over his lips. _“You daft? Lock it back up.”_

_“Metaphorically speaking.”_ And a quick follow up text before he can even shift to address her first response. _“Jackass.”_

He smiles again as he presses off the counter, heading in the last known vicinity of his shoes as he keeps his focus on the phone. _“Be over soon.”_

_“Bring curry.”_

 

* * *

 

 

It spills out his mouth at quarter to eleven when she opens her door and smirks and just lets her shoulder sway into the frame as he exhales. “See, my daughter's... she doesn't think things through sometimes.”

“Actually,” Gill's voice is more bemusedly soft than he's expecting, it's fully warmed up her throat as she cocks him a wry glance, “your daughter thinks _everything_ through. To a fault.”

He blinks a stunted understanding into her point. She's... she's right, actually. No way Em's just thoughtlessly brought this down around him. She especially wouldn't do this to him so carelessly. Especially his little Emily, who'd once waffled back and forth for _literally_ fifteen minutes over what color sprinkles she'd need for a birthday cake he sure as hell didn't actually want but she'd promised to make him because ' _well, mom's not gonna do it, is she?_ '. The girl who had actual lists deciding the positives and negatives of each university she's interested in pinned onto the back of her bedroom door. The girl who pre-plans what she'll wear to school the next day. Who plans their combined days off on a to-the-minute schedule.

“You're right,” he admits, a little shell-shocked by the realization he's been so nimbly played - and by family, no less.

Gill nods apologetically, empathy softening her features as her fingers wave between them, “And you just - ”

“Walked right into it, I did,” he finishes quickly, breathlessly, as he half turns on her stoop. “Jesus.”

“You did.” She agrees, a small laugh wrinkling her nose adorably as she lets the side of her head rest into the wood of the frame. Her arms are curled up against herself as though she's chilled, even if it isn't all that cold. And her hair is loose, not pulled back like he'd expected.

Cal finally gives her an exhausted but true grin, completely at a loss as to how blindly he's stepped into the moment. “I'm an idiot.”

“No,” she disagrees with a slow shake of the head and thinning eyes, “she's just gotten... way smarter than we realized. And I don't doubt she's been planning this since my divorce, actually.”

“S'terrifying,” he half laughs in return, taking a step up closer into her space as she rubs her fingertips into the fabric of the loose shirt she's wearing. The movement attracts his attention, draws his glance over her hand, the stretch of her fingers, the fabric and how it flows around her.

“She did the same thing to me earlier, essentially.” Gill's fingers stall under his scrutiny and he leans forward into the stilling of the movement, the softness of her voice. “I snapped at her this afternoon. I was short with her. Spoke to her like...”

His eyes lift toward hers, sussing out the end of her thought and wanting more of that undeniably knowledgeable tone, the one that says she can step back and see everything around them with more ease than he seems to be managing. “Like?”

“Like I had a right to chastise her.” Her brows tighten up in embarrassed sadness, a perk of shame on her as she shrugs, lets him see it. “Exactly what she was aiming for. It's why she kept pushing.”

Well, that and she's a stubborn mix and mingle of all things him and Zoe.

“Y'do, Foster. You've earned the right.” He waves it off like it's nothing, catches the look of disbelief and disagreement she gives him even as he sways closer to her. “She's being a little shit - and on purpose.”

“Wonder where she gets that.”

A noise comes up Cal's throat as he takes a teasing tug at her unmoving fingers, “And we could make lousy jokes or we could figure a way to teach her a lesson. Teach her to mind her own.”

“You're her father, Cal.” Her smile is beautifully indulgent and far more tender than he expects, her eyes glittering a bit in wry humor. “You _are_ her own.”

Just hers, then? Huh? Because he can see how lovingly amused she is in saying it but he'd swear, just fucking _swear_ , he could almost find jealousy crowding in around her eyes too. Something uniquely possessive. It changes the colors in her eyes sometimes, tips them darker and shades over with a gray that's near gunmetal and strong.

He's still holding against her fingers, sliding his thumb into the center of her palm as he finally loosens the air out of his lungs and shakes his head into whispered words. “You really wanna keep dancin' around this, Gillian? Or can we take a breather?”

Because he's not so sure he can keep his breathing going if they're just going to stay hovered in this place, this spot in between knowing and not, loving but quietly, caring too much to actually say so.

Gill just blinks, nothing tracing over her face that could possibly clue him in on her thoughts until she barely emits a smile and sighs, catching back on his fingers and tugging. “But I like dancing with you.”

He swallows and it lumps down his throat like the air's hardened up. “S'pose I've got a few more steps in me then.”

Her fingers flex on his tightly and suddenly and as though the answer was enough to act as some sort of lifeline, something to keep them tethered together and safe from drowning. “Enough to remind your daughter who the grown ups are?”

“I'm game if you are.” A smirk is breathing into the agreement but he doesn't give two shits if she can hear it as he reflexively lets loose her hand, wants her to if he's honest with himself, with them both. “Bringin' you lunch tomorrow so don't bother. Made enough chicken curry to feed a very small country thinkin' maybe you'd come home with Em. Like Monaco, maybe.”

“Cal?” Humor pretties her face as she watches him take a step back, one side of her mouth quirked higher than the other.

That same half smile flushes into a grin as he shrugs innocence at her. “What?”

“You're not off the hook, Lightman.” She seems effortlessly confident in her telling, as though she's sharing with him something so simply known and true and unquestionable – the surety and happiness in her tone makes his lungs melt looser. “I said I _like_ dancing with you.”

Cal teases her a cocky grin, flushes it up as he tips back into her space and leans closer, drops his tone intentionally suggestive, “Oh, yeah? Y'do?”

“I do.” She blinks a slow assent, allowing him his humor and taunting and cheekiness.

The grin that crashes on him has him swaying his head to the side, avoiding how perfectly knowing her return smile is as she watches realization and pleasure take over his features, his whole nervously shifting frame. “But if we're gonna make her think... I should go then.”

Gill is still staring him over with wry amusement, “She's not here right now, is she?”

A noise of negation grunts off him as he waves off between them, “She's at home, isn't she? Celebrating her mental acumen and this most recent victory over dear old dad. Probably written some sort of blog about it for her adoring masses.”

Gillian studies him a paused moment and he can't help but fidget a little under her scrutiny, hands stuffing themselves into his pockets after he tucks back his jacket. His shoulders go shrugging without conscious effort, his eyes brightened up cautious as he watches her watching him. A sudden smile takes her mouth hostage and her eyes get lighter as her jaw rises. She gives a nod and a dry little laugh as her fingers tug against the fabric of his shirt, tucking him even closer than his teasing had already drawn him.

She looks utterly (gorgeously) expectant. As though she knows exactly what she's waiting for and she more than deserves its arrival. And he damn well wishes she'd clue him in a little - because she still has the innate ability to confuse him to bits, shatter and scatter him up. Because he can't entirely tell why she's so adorably amused but, hell, he hopes he's the reason (in a good way) and that it stays this way for awhile. He loves making her laugh. Long as she's laughing happily and not because he's made a right idiot of himself.

“Are you nervous right now? Cal Lightman? Of all people?” She lets out a pleased laugh at the very concept, her head shaking minutely back and forth over him. “You are. That's adorable.”

Oh, _come on_. This is so very far from fair. “Gillian.”

“I lied, actually.” She pulls at him slowly, gently tugging on the fabric of his shirt as she nods and her eyes slim beautifully. “I _love_ dancing with you.”

So, yes. Right. She's the very end of every fight he's put up against being ass over teakettle in love with her. She's his inevitability - has been for years, hasn't she? And roughing his mouth against hers is purely instinctual. He doesn't quite realize what he's done until she lays a moan onto his tongue and digs her hands into the lapels of his jacket. It's shocking how deliciously attuned she to his movements, his mouth, the stretch of his hands as he cradles her up into his chest and rocks her hard into her own door frame. She meets his tongue with her own and an acceptance of his kiss that blinds him, grays out his already fuzzy brain and makes him rely entirely on her hands along his throat, her hips instantly angling into how hard he presses her up between himself and the frame.

He wants to touch her everywhere, the fabric of her clothing, the silken tease of her hair, the flushed warmth of her skin. Her throat, her wrists, her stomach and thighs and calves and that's not even half the list before he even gets to the naughtier parts of Gillian Foster.

Her throat is, no doubt, probably near delicious as her mouth.

And he's been fantasizing about sucking on her collarbone for fucking months (years) now.

The fact she's letting him angle his head into her shoulder and try a taste has him throttling a groan down along her clavicle just before he latches lips and tongue against perfume tanged skin and closes down against her, sucks hard and digs his teeth lightly into her. His body relaxes wholly into how smoothly she's just cradling him close, one hand teasing a circle in the sweat damp fabric of his shirt while the other lays against the back of his head and loosely ruffles through his hair.

“Cal.” Her whisper is just as mind blowingly perfect as her hand stroking into his back pocket and snugging comfortably there.

He rakes his tongue along the mark he's made on delightfully pale skin. “Hmmph?”

“You have to go or it won't work.” She's chides him, her voice happily amused despite what she's saying as she lets off a whimpered sigh at the feel of his lips on that damp line his tongue's left. “I can't let you in or we'll just - ”

“Right.” he grins it against her jaw, kisses gently on that strong line. “We're the grown ups here, yeah?”

“Right,” she agrees, though even she doesn't seem entirely convinced herself. “Right.”

He chuckles into hugging her, burying his face into her hair and inhaling as she sighs her lungs out, clinging into his shirt as another moan leans off her. “See you tomorrow then?”

“Bringing me lunch?” she asks into his shoulder, her tone sounding more like a contented little purring as he strokes a surprisingly shaky palm against the back of her head.

“Might make you a meal, sure.” His tone drops suggestive before he can help it, cheeks aching at how hard he's smiling as he catches the roll of her eyes and the way her hand stays his small but deliberate advance on her. “Foster for lunch, table of two.”

Her face strokes serious, a dry look taking over her eyes as she glances him over, “Not at work.”

And he can't help blaring disbelief at her silly notions of propriety, the facade of prim and proper she still upholds despite the fact he damn well knows she's just as wicked as he is some days. “Gill.”

“Not... at first.” A chuckle comes up her throat as she tucks him closer, her shoulders perking up a little in explanation. Right, this is his Romance Novel Girl, the one who desperately wants to be swept off her feet but also doesn't dare let anyone lift her off the floor these days... “Okay?”

“Yeah, I get it.” He grins, can't help himself from doing it. “Pretty fond of dancing with you, m'self.”

Her face takes on a look of uninhibited pleasure, jaw rising as her eyes go a little wider and a sighed sound passes her lips.

Right, romance then. With Foster. With Gillian. _His_ Gill.

World was mad crazy these days. That or she'd got a knock to the head he wasn't aware of.

“Think you can really pull this off? You're not great at lying to your daughter.”

Right she is about that – but he's got incentive now, doesn't he?

“This should help carry me along.” He leans farther up along the front of her, intentionally letting her feel the hot and hard bulge in his jeans as he angles into her thigh, enjoys the throaty moaning she makes in answer to its existence. “Gonna be a lonely frustrated bastard for the next five hours or so.”

Who was he kidding? He was going to be hard as hell and a pouty son of a bitch for the rest of the night. Have to wank in the shower or bash his head repeatedly into a thick wall or drive into the Potomac and hope it was just cold enough to induce shrinkage.

“Want some help?” she offers sweetly. Too sweetly, too close to innocuous, too Doctor Gillian Foster to actually be _his_ Foster.

“M'not sure, love.” he chuckles with an arched glance, eyes widening as she smirks her mouth closer to his. “What sort?”

Her shoulders shrug like she's innocent but her hand grazes his thigh like she's anything but. Then it shifts just barely, just enough to skid her palm against his cock through denim and he feels the squawked noise rip through his lungs before his throat strangles the sound.

“Just,” a pleased noise hums off her throat as her lips turn closer and brush against stubble, “a little something to strengthen your resolve if she starts wearing you down.”

“Aw, fuck,” his eyes grit closed into her hair as she cups her palm between his legs and slowly, incrementally strokes up and down, fingers never stopping their teasing, “there's my not-so-good girl. You're devious, you are.”

“Untruth,” she laughs the whispered argument into his ear and the tickling heat of it spikes right from head to gut to cock and he thrusts harder into her hand as she squeezes lightly.

“ _The_ truth,” Cal groans in argument. “And dangerous.”

Her fingers are making a slow trip up his zipper, past his button, under his shirt to find his stomach and rub against skin. “You love me anyhow.”

He feels the smile conquer his mouth even as his lungs crank still and close up shop on him.

For fucking sure, he does. And isn't that the truth?

A nod comes off him as he lifts a hand against her stomach and slowly presses her back, leaning her gently up against the door frame as he catches her fingers up and squeezes on them. “As I heard, it's you that couldn't finish your chocolate today. And brownie bits too? Unheard of, that.”

Gill's cheeks flush as another silent laugh goes through her nose, her head tipping lazily back into the frame as her shoulders go loose and his fingers let hers drop. “Good night, Cal.”

“Night, darling.” He studies how lazily pleased with herself she looks, tries to mentally photograph its prettiness as he waves toward the door. “Lock that up. Go on.”

The adoring and affectionate look of appreciation she gives him as she leans into her hall and reaches for the door is the first 'I love you' he can really, actually, see on her face in a long time.

He smirks when he hears the lock engage, turning and tucking his jacket closer around himself as he forces himself down the steps.

 

* * *

 

 

This is never going to work.

Not with him involved. And especially not with _her_ involved.

Sure, it'd been a fine idea when it had just been playin' at being a grumpy and glowering son of a bitch when he'd gotten at home. When he could (only slightly guiltily) enjoy Emily spoiling him with attention and apologetic loving and cuddling along the side of him to watch a truly ( _truly_ ) terrible horror movie long into the middle of the night. She'd made him popcorn, even. Fallen asleep along his side like a re-make of a memory from when she was much smaller and far more adoring of her father. He'd just pretended to be sullen and sad and secretly swallowed how nice it was to have his little girl snugged up tight beside him. It had actually put most of it out of his mind, really. Just being able to tuck down in with her and vacantly stare at a poorly made movie while stuffing popcorn in his mouth.

But in the bright light of day (long after Em's made him breakfast before going to school and kissed him tenderly on the temple)... it becomes an especially shit idea.

And Foster's just... just bein' _her_ about it all.

“Stop it.” Her voice is a sharply controlled whisper, her head just barely edging in his direction as she continues watching video of the jury selection process for their current case.

“M'not even doin' anything.” Except staring at the screen and trying to focus on the least attractive woman in the lot of them, imagining her in a potato sack and hoping like hell it's gonna block the fact that he can simply breathe in the smell of how close she is.

She's an inhalation now, something he can carry into his lungs and keep inside himself for as long as humanly possible. Something he's possibly allowed to take. Maybe.

Hopefully. Right?

Right... a truly, utterly, absolutely _shit_ idea.

He's never gonna last this.

His fingers smack at the keyboard, pausing the video just before he turns into her space. “Gill - ”

“God, you smell good.” she rushes the interruption into how closely he leans, her shoulders slacking low and her voice humming on the weak admission.

He feels his eyebrows lift in surprise before he lets off an honest laugh, the strength of it bringing him closer as he shakes his head at her. “Y'just gave me a verbal smack for doin' nothin' and now you're gonna use that tone?”

“Go stand over there,” she nods toward the corner and the lift of her hand is her mistake as he catches against her wrist and tugs at it, jerking her into him.

“No.”

Gillian closes her fingers, fisting her hand closed even as she leans into how warmly he rubs the pad of his thumb into her wrist. “Cal - ”

“Said 'no', didn't I?” He murmurs into her, jerking his jaw higher as he leans into rashing his stubble against her jaw, keeps her tightened up close as he exhales the scent of her from his lungs. “Make me.”

“This isn't going to work, is it?”

Not with the way she instinctively just turns her mouth closer to the haunting of his as she sighs.

Sure as hell not when she lifts the captured hand and jerks him up and tight by the fisted up buttons of his shirt, fits him into the front of her wrap dress (a fucking wrap dress? really? classic cleavage and wrapped tightly around her middle and hips and... _really, Foster?_ )

“God, I hope not,” he rubs into her lips before letting himself kiss her, pressing his tongue between her lips and swallowing the moan that has her laying her weight into him.

He'd be concerned, he'd question most recent (a decade's worth of) life decisions if she didn't drop into kissing him like it made perfect sense. Because she trips her tongue along his at the same time she catches his shirt tighter into her hands and manages to rumple the hell out of it. He doesn't necessarily like the stopping part when she slows his pressing. But stopping means, inevitably, starting again. Hopefully.

“Crazy about you, Foster. Makes no sense not to show ya if you want me to – and y'do. I can tell. _That_ I can see.” A smirk rises on his mouth as he tracks how nervously she rolls her glance away and chews into her lip in acceptance of his accusation. “Em's not even here.”

“She's not,” she agrees with that all too sensible tone of hers and steel in her grayed blue eyes. “All our employees are.”

All their employees – who've had a betting pool on them bedding down together for more than the last six months? And he knew it too – he'd bribed Ria into dropping a blind wager on it for him, hadn't he? All their employees who'd come to now just ignore how close they leaned and the bickering back and forth of an old married couple. Their employees, who already assumed that they were hopeless.

“Maybe you're just not sure about this, huh?” Cal draws his head back, pursing his lips as he tips his head into studying her face. “Maybe you're - ”

“I'm not,” Gill counters quickly.

And he thinks maybe he knows what it's like to have your lungs implode and collapse, the both at once. “You're not sure?”

Concern tenses her face as she realizes the confusion, shaking her head hard as she leans back closer to him. “I'm not stalling.”

A noise grates off his throat as he shakes his head accusingly at her. “Y'are, actually.”

“We're not here because you're ready. We're here because...” she says it with actual concern and it grinds his hands shut, digs his nails into his palms as she quietly continues, “because your daughter pushed you into it.”

“I'm a coward, Foster.” He murmurs back, trying to catch the worry in her eyes. “Needed the push.”

“You're not. You never have been.” Her argument is quick and resilient and he can tell, for a certainty – she's been worried about this for more than a few hours. “You have no problem jumping into legitimately dangerous situations and - ”

“Not with you. Never with you.” He pulls her up into him before either of them really realizes the movement and he can feel her tense but shift more relaxed as the words sink in. Their quietness and sincerity assuage the tightness in her shoulders as he loosens from where he'd grabbed at her wrists and slopes his palms on her hips instead. “Different with you, isn't it?”

He sees her consider the words, consider the fact that they're a perennial repetition, something she's heard over and again. Something that he's proven true often enough. And it's a far shorter moment than he expects before she nods, her hands going lax, the sides of them relaxing into his chest where she's trapped up into him.

“Think I'll take some work home this afternoon, before Emily gets out of school.” Gill offers slowly, biting on a smirk at the idea.

He smiles into the secretive and conspiratorial look. “Avoid her? Twist the knife, eh?”

She shrugs a little, lets her lashes fall against her cheeks before she lifts her head again, “Stop by later? After - ”

“Absolutely.” Her bright eyes are happily wide at how quickly he's interrupted her, how sure he is in his agreement.

“I still get lunch?”

One hand rises to knuckle against her lips with affection. “Wouldn't dare stand between you and curry, darling.”

A huff of supposed annoyance casts off her and he can see how fake it is by the fact she's twitching a smile under the swipe of his bent fingers. “Can we get back to work now?”

Cal makes a show of considering it, pouting a little under her sudden seriousness, “Can I nibble on you in my office later? Before you go today?”

The droll look she give him in response incrementally verges into a coquettish little smirk and he chuckles in answer, a brow arched as he nods agreement to her teasing. He wouldn't like and love her near much as he does if she could help herself from laughing when he's being a complete shit. It's what made him actually notice her at the first, wasn't it? The fact she obviously found his penchant for being a cheeky son of a bitch sorta adorable?

“If you can manage to get through the entire set of jury videos. Attorney's office is impatient.” Gillian answers with a half nod back toward the videos.

“Done.” He shunts her back and he can hear her heels strike rapidly against the floor as she balances her steps and laughs into how abruptly he's shoved off her and waved toward the door. “Go on now.”

“Cal - ”

“I'm focusing.” He swings the chair around and leans into it, legs straddling the seat so he can set his chin to the back as he slaps the video back to playing. “On your way.”

Her voice is soft like the trace of her fingertips against the back of his neck and his eyes unconsciously start slimming at the delightful heat of the touch. “You're going to sit through all of them by yourself?”

“Bein' productive now.” He playfully slaps back against her fingers. “Go.”

“Lunch.” Her smile bounces the walls of the room, echoing in her voice as she heads for the door and tugs it open. “Your office.”

Oh, he'll be there.

She certainly doesn't need to remind him.


End file.
